The flight attendants moved up and down the aisle, their faces neutral and professional.
One stopped to offer me a drink.
“Water or juice?”
I hesitated, then shook my head.
“No, thank you,” I replied, my voice barely audible over the noise.
The attendant nodded and continued.
It was a small interaction, but it felt significant, a reminder of the boundary I was now on the wrong side of.
I watched as they gracefully attended to each request from other passengers, their movements smooth and efficient.
It was a skill, one I respected, yet felt distant from.
The minutes dragged on, each one a reminder of where I was, and where I was not.
The turbulence hit, a jolt that shook me from my thoughts.
My hand instinctively gripped the armrest, seeking stability.
The plane steadied, but my mind remained in turmoil.
I realized I was holding my breath, a tension I hadn’t noticed before.
It released in a slow exhale, the weight of my own expectations lifting, if only slightly.
Yet the sour thread persisted, woven deep into the fabric of the flight.
It wasn’t just about the seat, I knew that now.
It was about being seen, being acknowledged in a world that often moved too fast to notice.
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